Endlessly
by GlassAngel
Summary: A collection of both slash and pre-slash drabbles involving Holmes and Watson, set in both movieverse and bookverse. Will be updated periodically.
1. Dizzy

**A/N: **Hey, here with a fic full of slashy drabbles! All Sherlock Holmes drabbles I write (under 1000 words-ish) that contain slash or pre-slash will go in here, and all friendship-only ones will go in another fic that will be posted either later today or possibly tomorrow. I told myself I was going to wait until I have more to post this, but it's my birthday and I feel like posting it. Ergo, I am posting it. XD I'm calling it a present to myself. *sings* Happy birthday to meeeee...

Ahem. Anyway, this drabble was supposed to be friendship-only, and then it ended up sounding a little like pre-slash. So you can read it whichever way you like, I suppose, but I presume if you're in here then you're okay with slash. If you're in here and not okay with slash...leave! For your own sake! :)

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Watson, Holmes, or Holmes' hands. Same goes for Gregson and Lestrade. I do own Jackson, I suppose, but who wants him anyway?

**Rating: **K+

**Summary: **Holmes was always there to catch him...

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Watson only intends to pause briefly at the street-corner in order to better regain his footing before rushing off again, but he realizes once he's there that the blackmailer's not on his previous path. His brows draw together in confusion as he darts glances around; over his shoulder, behind him, at every angle, until finally Jackson springs from his concealed crouch and attempts to make away.

But Watson spots him and is off, steadily ignoring the growing resistance in his bad leg. He knows that he and Holmes—wherever Holmes is at the moment—must catch Jackson before the Inspector does, or they risk the loss of their client's payment. Watson's not sure which Inspector is on this case, Gregson or Lestrade, but he'll bet their client won't pay if Scotland Yard catches the blackmailer, no matter that it was Holmes who drove Jackson from where he hid out for days. Wishing desperately that the less competent inspector is on the case, Watson rounds a corner and finds Jackson standing there.

Jackson wastes only a few seconds in leaping towards Watson and delivering a lead-filled blow to his skull before he darts off again, in yet another direction. His jacket flags out behind him, and Watson sees the pale blue fabric disappear among the duller colors of the crowd.

Still valiantly holding on to attempt a chase, Watson clutches the side of his head and spins around, determined not to lose sight of Jackson. Instead, the view of the street tilts in a disconcerting way, and Watson doesn't realize that he's tipping dangerously too, nearing the pavement with alarming speed as the world continues to spin and twist before him.

A hand catches Watson by the elbow and jolts him upright. Falling back a step to recover his balance, Watson takes a second to recognize the chemical-stained hand and follows the trail of the arm up to Holmes' face.

It takes a moment, but Watson's vision rights itself around Holmes, and he can't help but think that it's fitting. So much revolves around Holmes already; the addition of Watson's sight just makes sense. He keeps his eyes fixated on the familiar face until he's positive everything looks as it should.

"Jackson?" he finally asks, tearing his eyes away from Holmes' well-loved features to scan the street in front of him.

"Has fled," Holmes informs him, raising a hand to Watson's head and frowning slightly. "You're alright, I hope? That blow appeared quite vicious from above."

Ah, that explains why he didn't see Holmes on the street. Likely he was hanging out of some window in a fashion so hazardous that Watson doesn't even want to imagine it. "I'm fine. Thank you for catching me, by the way—I'm certain I would have fallen, otherwise."

"As I'm certain a fall would have done no good for your head," Holmes responds with a tight smile. He still has a hold on Watson's elbow, and his hand is a warm dry comfort against his skin. "Even without it, I think a little rest back home would be of great benefit. We can catch Jackson in the evening, for Gregson is off chasing an alias, nothing more. Shall I call a cab?"

The sun is out and Holmes hasn't moved his hand, so Watson shakes his head. "Let's walk," he decides.

Though Holmes raises his eyebrows, he doesn't object. Watson, for his part, bends his arm so Holmes' hand end up tucked in the inside of his elbow, and arm-in-arm they begin the walk home.

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**Review if you liked! I'm also doing a doubleshot, so there's another chapter posted... ;) Check it out if you like!**


	2. Filling the Void

**A/N:** This is very much bookverse, set several months after Empty House. (I know, what a shock, bookverse from me of all people?) Some parts might not make too much sense if you haven't read The Final Problem, though, as it has some stuff directly from there. On that note: Pre-Disclaimer Disclaimer: The quotes from The Final Problem contained herein do not belong to me; they belong, as stated below, to ACD. Enjoy.

**Disclaimer:** Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and some movie companies own Sherlock Holmes. I don't.

**Rating:** K+

**Summary:** A late-night talk. Bookverse, post-Reichenbach.

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The only light to see by was the streetlamp down below; the sun had set and the candles burned out hours ago. Still Watson stood at the window, peering anxiously out into the street, waiting for— There it was, the tall, shadowy figure walking at a brisk pace towards home.

His nature had become more wary in the past months, and it made him now remain at the window, watching for a tail to come creeping along. None did, but he kept a careful eye on the street until Holmes entered, remembering the damage done by fire to the same room he stood in now.

Holmes shut the door to the sitting-room and came up behind Watson so that his front was pressed to the doctor's back. Wrapping his arms around Watson's waist, directly beneath his folded arms, Holmes rested his head against the side of Watson's. "I thought you would already be asleep," he remarked.

"I was worried—you were out very late." Watson closed his eyes, telling himself to forget the hours of worrying. Holmes was here, Holmes was safe.

"Early, actually. It's just past two. May I ask why you've been so worried as of late?"

Holmes felt Watson shrug his shoulders, his motion sliding over the fabric of Holmes' shirt. "I know he's gone, but…the last few years have dismantled my calm. It's not important."

"I disagree, my dear. Anything that negatively interferes with your well-being or state of mind is, in fact, quite important. Would accompanying me more often allay some of your concerns?"

Watson smiled at hearing Holmes' fast words, offered with only the thought of providing aid. How Holmes remained this lucid at this hour escaped him. "It might."

"Then you shall accompany me next time." Holmes went quiet after several minutes, waiting to see if Watson would say anything further on the subject or perhaps provide some more information regarding his concerns. When no reply came, he cleared his throat, hoping to draw Watson into a more lighthearted argument. "So I am really the best and wisest man whom you have ever known? You ought not say things like that. My head will only grow larger for it."

Watson felt Holmes' lips curving into a small smile against his ear and reminded himself that Holmes was only teasing, that Holmes didn't know the pain associated with those words. "Yes—you are particularly difficult to describe, but I thought Plato was fitting. I, much like him, had just experienced one of the most painful losses I have endured."

"'That event which has created a void in my life,'" Holmes quoted, tightening his arms around Watson, as though trying to pull him closer. "I understand."

"Do you?" Watson turned his head as far as he could, but only could see the side of the aquiline nose and the barest glimmer of one grey eye. "It seems as though you mock me for my writing. I was heartbroken at the time I wrote that, even after passing through two years."

"I assure you that I am not in any way mocking you," Holmes said, seeing Watson's agitated expression. "I was merely attempting to ask, in my own clumsy, roundabout way, why you used such words to describe me when they cannot be true. I may be the wisest, but I surely am not the best."

Watson smiled. Of course Holmes, with his utter disregard for modesty, would claim that he might be the wisest man to live. "I wouldn't love anyone less," Watson replied, leaning his head back against Holmes.

That was explanation enough for Holmes, and when Watson yawned, head settling more limply against his chest, the detective unwound his arms from Watson's waist. "Nor I," Holmes said quietly. "Now, doctor, I think it's time for bed."

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**Aww. *wishes Holmes would cuddle me* Anywho, an analogy: Reviews are to me as chocolate is to a chocoholic. Yes, I'm addicted. XD Anyway, thanks for reading! More soon :)**


	3. Side Effect

**A/N:** This was written between 11pm and 1am last night, while having a conversation with one of my friends that included, among other things, Shakespeare, pickles, and Freud. (Surprisingly, I think it helped me in writing this. No lie. Thanks go to The Man in the Moon for providing said conversation, though he won't see this.) Anyway, despite the late hour at which it was written and the fact that it got rather heavy with the addition of traumatized!Watson, I like it.

Oh, and I was picturing this in Ritchieverse while I was writing it. I guess it could be in the books, but that's just the way it struck me.

ALSO: I forgot to say this in the first chapter, but my friend Sydni looked Dizzy over and approved it. She's the queen of beta'ing two different fics at once with a broken, half-assembled computer. So thanks, Sydni. :)

**Disclaimer:** I don't own. Sigh.

**Rating:** T for a bad word in the very beginning

**Summary:** War wounds run just under the surface, as Watson finds out after a minor occurence.

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—_and he's running and he can't get to Holmes, who needs a doctor because he's been shot in the goddamn __**stomach**_—

Watson jerks awake and rests his forehead against the back of the settee, gasping wildly. It's the second time in a week he's had the nightmare, as it only happens when he sleeps away from Holmes. Not altogether surprising, after their most recent case, but still unsettling. He shakes it aside and stands to find Holmes—

—Except he never makes it to standing, only topples to the floor with a thud. His bad leg has gone numb from his awkward sleeping position and is totally unresponsive, even when he tries to merely shift it under him. There's only a prickling wash of mild pain, but the dead feeling in his leg reminds Watson of the instant he was wounded. He feels the bullet in his flesh again when he falls to the ground in the same manner as in Afghanistan.

But now there's an excessively worried detective bolting to his side, lifting him back to the settee in a brief burst of strength, peeling back his pants to find the imagined injury. He's only half-aware of the voice whispering quick assurances and asking, "Watson, your leg, have you hit the scar tissue?"

Holmes grips Watson's calf with hands that are meant to be gentle, hesitant to touch the site of the old wound. Only—that's where it hurts, in his calf, a cold pressure slowly burning a path up to the Afghan scars. "Holmes—Holmes, no, you're making it hurt worse," he cries, eyes filled with images of sand and dead soldiers. Holmes yanks his hands away, eyes wide with guilt.

Then Watson recognizes that the sensation is not in the place he knows the bullet entered, and the realization allows him to separate himself from the dimly-recalled memories. He shakes his head once and leans back.

"Watson?" Holmes asks hesitantly, fingers straying towards him, wanting terribly to help.

"Yes, I'm—God, Holmes, I'm so sorry." Watson twitches his toes, just to be sure it's passed. He feels nothing other than a brief shiver of discomfort that vanishes almost instantly. "I momentarily lost circulation, and it reminded me of the war. I'm a wreck," he realizes, hearing how disconnected the two events are.

"Your leg no longer pains you, correct?"

"It does not."

Swiftly, Holmes removes Watson's shoe and sends his fingers skittering along the doctor's leg, searching for the origin of pain. Watson, surprised, lets his head fall back and his eyes drift shut at the relief. "Better?" Holmes inquires, and Watson nods dumbly.

After a minute he straightens in his position, still half-sitting and half-lying, and meets Holmes' gaze. "I should tell you it doesn't hurt anymore," he says regretfully.

Holmes only smiles, brown eyes steady on Watson, and continues rubbing circles in the patch of smooth skin behind Watson's knee. There's another smooth patch higher, all scar tissue mangling his leg and marking him a veteran, which Holmes wishes he could stop the aching in. For now, this portion will have to suffice. "Would you rather I stop?"

Watson swallows hard, looking at the detective kneeling by the settee and tending to his leg. "Not at all."

Finally, Holmes makes an impatient noise in the back of his throat, and his fingers still below the scarring. "Watson."

"Hmm?" He's stuck in feeling the lack of pain, the complete relief.

"Bed."

It takes Watson a moment to understand, and then he stands, putting full weight on his relaxed leg and catching Holmes' hand in his own.

He's certain he won't have any nightmares when he next falls asleep.

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**I got four reviews on the first two chapters and then had chocolate-on-chocolate birthday cake. Coincidence? I think not. A huge THANK YOU to everyone who reviewed. I love you guys! :)**


	4. Unwelcome

**A/N:** ...This one works out to about 850 words, so yay for it still fitting in here. About the reviews: You guys rock! I love every review.

Okay, remember how I said The Man in the Moon helped last chapter? Double that. For my birthday, he freaking went and made me a shirt with a big picture of RDJ on the back. OH MY GOSH. And then Music Manic 101, another friend, went and got me the Sherlock Holmes soundtrack! EVERYONE SAY "THANK YOU FRANK AND BREANNA." They totally win. I love you guys :D

...Needless to say, such things made me write, except this time it's two chapters. Unfortunately, I have to actually write the next chapter for my Tin Man fic, so...I'm going to wait to post the next chapter to this for a little bit. Hopefully I'll get the TM chapter finished and posted within a week, and then I'll post the next chapter to this. Maybe I'll make it a doubleshot to make it up to you ;)

Oh, and I know this is set in winter... *looks at the 80-degree weather outside* Christmas in July, anyone?

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything related to Sherlock Holmes except copies of the books, the movie, and now the soundtrack.

**Rating:** Hmm...K+, I guess.

**Summary:** Holmes pouts. All day. Because Watson's patients are girls with their eyes on the doctor. (Honestly, can they be blamed?)

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Trouble often came during winter, when young women became tired of staying inside their homes but didn't want to remain outside for long. For some reason, the (il)logical conclusion was that a trip to the doctor would relieve them of their boredom. Apparently they much preferred watching the young Dr. Watson to sitting in a chair and embroidering.

If he were more forgiving, Holmes could sympathize and agree with the scores of ladies—half single and looking for a husband, half married and just looking. He knew better than anyone the joy that came from the ease of conversing with Watson, of seeing a bright unexpected smile spring to his face as his laugh filled the room.

Now, deprived of his lover by another attractive young woman hoping to secure an engagement from her invented fever, Holmes bitterly reminded himself why he despised women. Adler stood as the exception, the only one worth his respect, while all of Watson's patients from the past week belonged firmly in the other group.

Unable to bear the unmoving elements of the sitting-room any longer, Holmes fled to his room but stopped in front of the door. In the rooms that housed Watson's practice, those right across the hall from where he stood, he heard Watson recounting the tale of how he found Gladstone. When his patient's voice began an animated response, Holmes lifted his lip in a sneer and entered his room.

Gladstone laid at the bottom of his bed, rolled on his back with his stubby legs dangling upwards into the air. Ignoring the uncomfortable-looking position of the dog, Holmes nudged him so he fell to his side, still deeply asleep.

Crawling into bed, where Watson had left him seven hours ago—was it really three in the afternoon already?—made him feel slightly better. With only one thin blanket to cover him, as the thicker one had obtained a chemical burn that required repair, Holmes couldn't escape the damp chill pervading the room. But it was better than continuing to curse (almost) all females for another few hours, so Holmes stuck his feet beneath the bulldog's warm stomach and went to sleep.

Around eight, he decided he enjoyed waking with a warm, drowsy Watson draped over him, sheltering him from most of the cold. "Did you get enough sleep last night?" Watson asked, kissing the skin behind his ear.

"Yes. I simply had nothing else to occupy me, so I rested," Holmes explained, now fully awake. "How long have you been finished?"

He felt Watson's shrug from above. "Two hours, maybe three. At least I don't have anyone scheduled for tomorrow."

"You don't?" Holmes responded instantly, forgetting to filter out the eagerness in his voice. He wriggled out from under Watson so he could face him.

Watson smiled, blindingly beautiful in Holmes' eyes. "That's why I worked all today, remember? Tomorrow we can sleep late and walk Gladstone and take a long lunch and go to the opera in the evening. It's better than two days of having you to myself for only a few hours at a time."

"You're sure?" Holmes suddenly felt uncertain, worn down by a week of married and unmarried young women passing through their home. "Any one of your patients would be thrilled to have you. Even one of the married ones would be better than me."

Watson's face softened with understanding, and he pulled Holmes close. Dryly, he said, "Holmes, apply your brilliance for only a second. How could I, who am already involved with another man, possibly have an interest in any of my recent clients? They're all female!"

"You could be partial to both," Holmes rebutted.

Watson sighed. "I could be, but I have no way to verify that. _You_ are the only being I have ever loved, so the rest are irrelevant."

"I'm glad to hear that," Holmes replied, deeply touched but refusing to show it. "You seemed to be engaged in a most amiable conversation with one lady, from all I heard."

Watson fidgeted slightly. "I shouldn't trick them as I do, but—you know how so many of my patients present me with imagined ills. For those, I draw them into acting normally—for many it's trying to charm me, in fact—and then say how fortunate that their health seems to have improved. It gets them out of my office sooner," he admitted.

Delighted at his deception and repressing a grin, Holmes scolded, "Isn't that unethical in some manner? You're ignoring their complaints of fatal headaches, are you not? Fiend."

Watson laughed brightly, hiding the sound against Holmes' shoulder. "You won't be complaining tomorrow, when I'm free of patients because I fended them all off today."

No, he wouldn't complain, because though that day had been miserable the next promised to be far from it. Besides, now he had his smile, he had his laugh, he had his Watson.

Quietly, Watson added, "And stop underestimating your value to me."

Holmes smiled blissfully and closed his eyes.

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**I keep getting to the end of these and thinking... "Awww." XD Anyway, leave a review if you like. It feeds my addiction like the shirt and soundtrack do.**


	5. At the Docks

**A/N:** Hiiiii all! I managed to write that chapter for my other fic in two days because of you guys, so here's this chapter early. I wanted to save it as a buffer so I'm a chapter ahead of what I have posted, but I was so excited to be able to post more of this if I wanted that...I posted more of this. XD Unfortunately that means no double-shot this time, but there should be another chapter up sometime tomorrow. Anyway, thanks to all who reviewed, because your reviews rock!

(Oh, this is book-verse, so all you book-fans, rejoice! Me, I'm always happy, because I like both book- and movie-verse. Heh.)

**Disclaimer:** I don't own any bits of fiction, least of all Sherlock Holmes. I'm pretty sure I would know if I did.

**Rating:** K+ for mild violence

**Summary:** Holmes doesn't take too well to Watson getting shot. Well, almost getting shot. Book-verse.

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The pistol makes a loud noise as it cracks across Watson's jaw, making him stumble back involuntarily. He feels his mouth filling with blood and spits out what he can, chasing after the criminal even though most of his vision's covered by black because he knows that's what Holmes wants him to do. When he tries to grab the man's coat, he misses and trips, crawling after him even when he falls to the ground, which is strangely wooden and hard and—

Watson freezes as he hears the side of a boat thumping against the dock, followed by the heavy, dull smack of rope on a deck, the jeers and shouts of a few men, and the sound of the boat slipping away from the dock. He doesn't know where the edge of the dock is, and he doesn't want to find it by toppling into the Thames. The pain in his mouth forces his eyes closed against it, and because he knows it'll hurt just as much now as it will later Watson probes his teeth with his tongue, checking for any gaps or looseness.

Everything's firmly in place, thank goodness, so he tries to open his eyes. When he finally succeeds, he sees a panting Holmes running up to him. "Are you alright? Where have they gone?" he demands, stooping over to put a hand on Watson's arm.

From what Watson can tell, his mouth is still bleeding significantly and already beginning to swell. He tries to answer Holmes, but ends up having to spit out another mouthful of the blood-and-saliva mixture.

"Where have—" Holmes runs his hands over Watson's shirtfront, checking for injuries. When he finds none, he puts his hands under Watson's arms and heaves him to standing. Squinting in the poor light, he puts gentle fingers to Watson's jaw. "He hit you with the pistol?"

Watson nods, relieved that Holmes doesn't need more than an affirmative or negative. This way he doesn't have to attempt speech yet.

"Thank God." At Watson's puzzled, wounded look, Holmes hurries to say, "I heard the crack from where I was chasing our man's accomplice and feared he'd shot you. Let's get to the main road, shall we? I'll hail us a cab there."

As they walk in silence, Watson spitting out more blood as they go, Holmes asks, "How did he get close enough to hit you? I was almost certain he would make it away in that boat of his, but you must have managed to diminish his lead on you."

The bleeding's starting to slow, fortunately. Watson tries speaking, and the words only sound slurred, though he has to talk slowly. "I shouted to him that we had evidence to link him to the kidnapping and he was going to prison for it. I thought it might slow him down, and it did."

"So, essentially, you gave a dangerous criminal both a reason to be desperate and an opportunity to harm you," Holmes summarizes evenly.

Watson starts at the unkind phrasing. "I was only trying to catch him."

Holmes stops walking and turns to face Watson. "Yes, but you cannot catch him if you are dead!" he says coldly. "He kidnapped a young girl, and we knew he was armed. In such situations you must _think_, Watson, not charge in blindly and get shot!"

Watson stares helplessly at Holmes, whose grey eyes look silver in the light of the gas-lamps, and wonders how they got to Holmes chastising him. He certainly can't defend himself against Holmes. It only hurts more that Holmes' hair is curling in the heat, as Watson loves.

"You're angry with me." Watson keeps his statement neutral, still shocked at the fact. It hasn't happened in a while—and it's been even longer that it's happened on a case.

Holmes' eyes melt, and he rakes a hand through his hair distractedly. "No, I'm not," he mutters. "As I said, I thought you were shot. I know I tend to overreact, but I would hate to see that happen."

Watson smiles ruefully. "As would I. At least he only hit me with it," he offers.

His sentences are still slurred, and Holmes notices. "I'm not fond of seeing that either," he says, stepping forward to embrace Watson. Holmes kisses Watson's forehead and Watson curls a hand around the nape of Holmes' neck, completely content.

Finally Holmes sighs. "Let's find that cab," he says, stepping away. "I need to get some cool cloths on your jaw."

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**Doctah Holmes, to the rescue! Review if you liked, and also if you'd like Holmes to play nurse to you as much as I do. :D Thanks for reading!**


	6. Bound

**A/N:** *looks at the title* Okay, it does NOT mean something kinky. Get your minds out of the gutter, people! *points at rating*

...Just kidding. Kind of. (Trust me, if you knew my friends, you'd automatically say that too.) Anyway, here's the deal: I'm leaving for a whirlwind tour of a few colleges tomorrow evening, and then visiting relatives after that. I may or may not get to post a new chapter tomorrow, depending on how much time we spend packing and whatnot. Also, I may or may not be able to post in the ten-or-so days following. So...be patient. I'll be writing a lot of the time in the car, so I'll be posting again once I get back home. I don't like having to be away from this fic for that length of time (because I absolutely and ridiculously love Holmes/Watson fluff and your awesome reviews), but I have to. But don't worry, I'll post more as soon as I can. :)

(By the way, my sister just got me Iron Man as a late birthday present. Can anyone say 'woot woot?')

**Disclaimer:** As much as I would like to, I don't own anything here except the conversation and the fictional orchestra. ACD owns the other minor stuff, like the characters. (Can I at least claim the Strad?)

**Rating:** K+

**Summary:** Watson inquires about Holmes' choice of occupation. Bookverse.

* * *

The bow drags lazily across the strings, the first sound in nearly twenty minutes, and Watson looks up silently to see Holmes frowning thoughtfully at his violin. Not wanting to interrupt, Watson returns to his cigar and his musings. He's glad Holmes has let him stay while he thinks on the case at hand, instead of bidding him to leave the room. He doesn't want to spoil the rare opportunity by disturbing the detective.

Watson knows the music is merely an aid to Holmes' rapid current of thought, but he allows himself to relax into it as he continues to enjoy the cigar. Encouraged by the violin, he takes a medical journal from the table next to the settee, thinking the noise from turning pages would be admissible.

Halfway through the journal, the music shifts from an impromptu composition to one of Watson's favorite pieces. Watson smiles, knowing the change is for his benefit, and glances over at Holmes as he turns to the next page. Holmes sees Watson looking his way and returns the smile, dropping his gaze back to the violin.

"You're finished with the case for the evening, I take it?" Watson asks once Holmes finishes, knowing he'll get a conformation.

"I am," Holmes says, though he pauses to think for another minute. "Do you recall what time Mr. Daley arrives at the bank for work?"

"Half past eight."

"Hmm. I know where his jewels will be at a quarter to twelve, so I'll have to return them to him when he returns home after work. Did you enjoy the Handel?"

Watson blinks, startled by the abrupt shift in topic. "Yes, very much. Why do you ask?"

Holmes only answers his question with a different one. "Is that how you knew I had finished theorizing?"

"Yes. Why?" Watson isn't frustrated—he wouldn't have been able to live with Holmes this long if that was all it took to exasperate him—but he is curious about the answer to his question.

Holmes grins and sinks farther into his chair. "Very good, Watson. You do know me well."

"I would hope I do, after all these years," Watson retorts good-naturedly, setting aside the medical journal and folding his hands across his stomach. "Though I admit to some curiosity on one thing."

"You may ask about it, if you like." Holmes cocks his head to one side, waiting for the question.

Still, Watson hesitates out of fear of touching on some personal issue, but then he asks it anyway. "Why did you not pursue the violin for a career? You have extreme talent in it and I know you enjoy playing."

Holmes shrugs. "I did not make a career in it for the same reason I did not choose to box regularly for money. For one, I enjoy exercising my detecting abilities far too much to neglect them, and for another, steady money does not accompany an instrument. Crime is a constant, so I can always rely on having a source of income in the job I have chosen."

"Surely you could have found work with—with an orchestra, or at the opera, or some such thing," Watson presses, sitting forward now and leaning towards Holmes. "Before you began working as a detective, perhaps, or before you became well-known?"

"With the publication of your stories, Watson, that happened not long after I began work," Holmes points out affectionately. "However, I was—approached, once, by the owner of a travelling orchestra that playing in concert halls here and on the Continent. He said his musicians were included based solely on talent, and if a more skilled musician came along they would replace the least talented in that instrument."

"And?"

"He said that with my level of talent, I wouldn't have to worry about losing my place," Holmes admits. "It was all rather tempting. The owner essentially offered me steady employment and fine travelling for the rest of my working years."

Watson's clearly baffled. "Goodness, Holmes, that's brilliant! Why didn't you take his offer?"

Holmes stands and crosses to Watson, cradling his face between his hands. "Because, my dear Watson," Holmes whispers, "at that point I had lived with you for almost two years and was well on my way to falling in love with you. Of course I couldn't leave. You're more precious to me than touring Europe."

Watson smiles, and his hazel eyes lighten as they do when he's happy. "I love you," he says, though he knows the words make Holmes uncomfortable.

Holmes surprises Watson by kissing him briefly, barely more than a brush of lips. "I have to wire Scotland Yard about the jewelry, but I'll return as soon as I'm done. Do you think you'll still be awake?"

The smile on Watson's face broadens into a grin, and he steals a second kiss. "I will," he promises against Holmes' mouth.

Holmes straightens and runs his fingers through Watson's fine hair once before letting his hand fall away and drop to his side. "I won't be long."

After Holmes leaves, Watson relocates to the tiger-skin rug and lounges there, waiting for him to return.

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**...Who knew Holmes could be so cute? ;)**

**Thanks for reading! Reviews are always appreciated. *winkwinknudgenudge***


	7. Terribly Distracting

**A/N:** Aha, I have returned! Here's a new chapter for y'all. :)

**Disclaimer:** All I own of Sherlock Holmes is the DVD, the two Barnes and Noble volumes, a book of the short stories, a fancy version of the two novels, the soundtrack, and a partridge in a pear tree. Despite the long list, I don't actually own the characters.

**Rating:** VERY STRONG T, PEOPLE. For stuff that's both implied and done. Kiddies be careful.

**Summary:** Holmes is upset by a thunderstorm, and Watson takes it on himself to make him forget it. Movieverse.

* * *

Watson woke once Holmes tensed and rolled away from him. Even when he half-opened his eyes, he could see nothing in the dark room until lightning flashed outside, briefly illuminating everything directly in front of the window.

Blindly, Watson reached out despite the lingering heaviness in his limbs until his palm flattened against the curve of Holmes' shoulder. "Holmes, are you alright?" he mumbled, valiantly struggling to wake himself up to see what was the matter.

"Yes," came the shaky reply, as Holmes fisted his hands in Watson's shirt and pulled him a little closer. Moving by touch, Watson found Holmes' other shoulder and slid his hand around it until he had both arms wrapped securely around the detective, holding him against his chest.

"I don't believe you," Watson said, too tired still to sound suspicious or even try to bully it out of Holmes. They'd only gotten home that night after working on a case for several hours, and even after collapsing on the bed in his clothes, Watson was exhausted. He settled for asking, "What is it that's troubling you? Don't tell me it's nothing."

"It's been thundering for the past hour."

"…Yes. What does that—hang on, you've been awake for an hour?"

Holmes burrowed closer and disentangled one hand enough to lift it to Watson's hair. Running his fingers through the fine strands calmed Holmes enough to reduce his reaction to a flinch the next time thunder sounded. "Approximately," he muttered.

The gentle pressure on his scalp made Watson's eyes drift shut involuntarily before he remembered himself. "You're trying to distract me," he growled, and blue met brown at the next flash of lightning.

"I am," Holmes admitted ruefully. "It's only that I can't sleep through thunder now. It sounds too similar to the factory explosion last year."

"I had that same problem the first few months afterwards," Watson said, sighing. "I'd hoped it wouldn't happen to you because you weren't injured."

"Well, it has," Holmes announced belligerently. "And I'm not sorry I woke you, either. Seeing you moving about has quelled my remembered fears of your death, however irrational they are now."

At the end of his speech, another boom of thunder came from outside the window and made Holmes flinch again, eyes going wide.

Watson nuzzled against Holmes' ear. "If it ever troubles you again, wake me immediately instead of waiting an hour," he said quietly, entirely serious. Holmes made a small affirmative noise in the back of his throat.

The noise gave Watson an idea—a rather underhanded idea, actually, but he reasoned that Holmes would do the same for him if he was ever this clearly distraught. Beginning at Holmes' ear, Watson trailed kisses down his jaw until he reached his mouth. "Watson?" Holmes gasped, and Watson smirked and kissed him.

He hooked a leg over Holmes' hip and shifted so he was on top, fingers already working at the buttons on the shirt Holmes had worn to bed. Watson pressed his mouth to the hollow at the base of Holmes' neck and noted with interest how his breath halted for an instant, replaced b a quiet groan. Once the shirt was gone, Watson tracked his way down and across Holmes' chest, moving slowly the entire way.

Holmes finally found his voice with Watson's hands tugging his trousers down and his mouth hovering at Holmes' prominent hipbone. "You're only distracting me," Holmes accused breathlessly.

"So it's working? Good to hear," Watson returned, grinning against Holmes' skin. He dragged his mouth an inch lower.

Holmes squirmed and fisted his hands in Watson's hair. "Don't stop _now_," he said, then swore. "If you do this every time it thunders I'm going to get spoiled."

Watson laughed.

* * *

**Yeah, I ended it there because I want to keep this rated T. (Also because I can't write sex scenes) XD But feel free to extrapolate.**

**And I know I promised a doubleshot, but I figured I'd better ask first...I have the next chapter ready to post, BUT it's rather angsty, so: I can post the next chapter later today, or I can wait until I have the one after that typed and post eight and nine then. So either a double dose of angst now, or angst and then fluffier stuff tomorrow. Thoughts?**

**Thanks as always to those who reviewed!**


	8. Never Any Better

**A/N:** Alright, you guys seem not to mind angst so...keep that in mind. This has rather heavy Watson-whomping to follow up on the slight Holmes-whomping last chapter. Except this is worse than bad dreams. Poor Watson. :( But never fear, next chapter shall be lighter! (Currently I forget what the next chapter is, but I don't think I'm going to make a liar out of myself. Seven and eight were the angstiest I got on my trip.)

**Disclaimer:** Can I get a pass saying I've already disclaimed once today? Please?

**Rating:** Eh, T for mentions of death, I suppose. Plus a naked Watson. ;)

**Summary:** Something's wrong with Watson... (Intended as movieverse, I think, but can fit in any other 'verse.)

* * *

Though the presence of Watson's hat, coat, and shoes indicated he had returned home, Watson was not in the sitting-room, the kitchen, his bedroom, or even Holmes' bedroom. Holmes only found him when he poked his head cautiously into the washroom. "There you are, Watson. When did you get home?" he greeted.

Watson stayed where he was, sitting in the bathtub with his arms resting on the sides. It took another two tries by Holmes to gain his attention.

He blinked and turned towards Holmes. "Sorry I didn't see you there," he said, sounding distracted. "What did you say?"

"I asked when you came home," Holmes said carefully, stepping towards the bathtub. "You were out when I was last here."

"When was that?"

"Around lunchtime, evidently. Nanny kept pestering me about having something to eat."

"You _should_ eat more. It's not healthy." The response was automatic, with not the least inflection in Watson's voice, which did nothing for Holmes' growing concern. Watson was silent for another minute, and then he finally said, "Four hours. I've been home for four hours."

"Good, good, so you got back soon after I left," Holmes said encouragingly. He knelt by the tub and squeezed Watson's shoulder, light and gentle. When he noticed the gooseflesh on the doctor's arm, he frowned. "Are you feeling ill?"

"Hmm? No, the water's just gone cold." Watson turned away, dismissing the temperature as perfectly normal.

Aghast, Holmes dipped a few fingers into the water and found that it was indeed tepid. "You've been home for four hours, you say? How long have you been in the water?"

Watson tilted his head to the side and lifted a hand to his mustache as he considered. "Three hours, perhaps?"

When Watson began pulling on his mustache as was his nervous habit, Holmes knocked his hand away and took hold of Watson's chin so he could turn his head to face him. "I will be very clear, so listen to me," Holmes said seriously. "There is something very obviously wrong that is upsetting you. I need you to focus and tell me what it is."

"I let a patient die today."

Holmes blinked. "I'm sure you didn't really. How did it happen?"

Watson went quiet for another minute before beginning. "A five-year-old girl cut herself with a kitchen knife. As I understand, she dropped it and when it fell it cut the skin over her ribcage, right side. The mother sent for me, and I finished my appointment with Mr. Nelson before I went over."

"And then?"

"The mother's message said she'd stopped the blood and she just needed me to bandage it properly. By the time I got there the girl, Annie, had gotten the makeshift bandage off, not that I knew. I discounted her paleness as natural coloring, for her mother was so, and I thought her sweat was only from the heat," Watson explained dazedly, pausing and shutting his eyes. "She went into shock and died, Holmes, _died_ because I was too thick to see what the problem was! I could have fixed it!"

"I'm told this happens to every doctor," Holmes said, resting his chin on the inside of Watson's upturned elbow.

"It does, but it's no easier than the first time," Watson replied miserably.

Holmes surveyed him gravely. "I know, old boy," he said in a soft voice. He kissed Watson on the cheek and then stood to look for a towel. By the time he found one and turned back around, Watson had dropped his head to his chest and was pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Come now, stand up," Holmes instructed. When Watson didn't move, he sighed and put his hands under Watson's arms so he could pull him up. Guided by Holmes, Watson stepped out of the water and stood on the floor, dripping wet and trembling from the transition from cold water to hot and humid air. Holmes toweled him dry and then affixed the towel about Watson's waist.

Uncertainly, Holmes asked, "Shall I get you a fresh set of clothes?" He felt torn—Watson looked like all he wanted was to hold and be held, but surely he would feel more comfortable in new clothes…

After a moment's indecision Holmes relented and hugged Watson, who clung tightly to him. "Thank you, Holmes," he said, sounding choked.

Holmes cleared his throat, wondering why it suddenly felt tight. "You take care of me all the time. The least I can do is return the favor."

And if Holmes realized the moisture on his neck wasn't bathwater, he didn't say anything.

* * *

***hugs Watson as well* Thanks for your reviews last chapter, guys! Expect another chapter tomorrow...**


	9. Dress Up

**A/N:** Haha, this is exactly 555 words! (The slightest things amuse me, sorry)

Sorry for the delay in posting...I spent the evening on the run from KFC after being fried extra crispy at the beach. Apparently they mistook me for a runaway chicken bucket. ...Also, you know, I had to edit this chapter bigtime. Now it's at a point where I like it again, yay!

On another note: I saw the Jeremy Brett episode of The Speckled Band on Youtube a few days ago and oh boy. I am in love with that man's voice. He freaking rolls his 'r's, people!

**Disclaimer:** The only things I own right now are my sunburn and amazingly soft Team RDJ t-shirt. (Thank goodness I actually own something that doesn't hurt to wear.) So no, I don't own Sherlock Holmes.

**Summary:** Holmes takes Watson out on a date. To the opera. Movieverse.

**Rating:** K+

* * *

"What, you haven't dressed yet?"

Watson glanced up in surprise, then at his current clothing, and then back at Holmes. "I beg to differ. I _am_ dressed, if you hadn't noticed."

Holmes pushed off from the doorframe with a snort. "An undershirt and trousers does not count as 'dressed,' no matter how often I wear the same."

"It's hot outside," Watson said defensively, looking down again at his clothes. The hem at the bottom of the shirt was looking a bit tattered, actually…

Holmes smiled briefly. "I know it is. Get dressed; we're going to the opera tonight."

"Really?" Watson asked, perking up some. "Which one?"

"I got us a private box. Be ready in an hour," Holmes called over his shoulder as he left the room, ignoring Watson's question.

Watson sighed and tried to decide if he should shave first.

* * *

Uncomfortable? Highly.

Necessary? Unfortunately, yes.

Holmes' resolve to detest the outfit weakened slightly when Watson kissed him. "You look dashing, Holmes," he murmured.

He thought he rather liked his clothes now, though for appearance's sake he grumbled, "That's because I bathed for the first time in a month."

Watson laughed and led the way out to the street. "Well, it was worth doing. Try it more often, won't you?"

Holmes responded by hailing a cab.

Once they were settled inside, knees comfortably bumping on occasion, Watson asked, "What opera are we going to see?"

"One we've seen before."

"Good, so I'll have an idea of what's going on amongst all the Italian," Watson joked, then paused. "Is it in Italian?"

"It is." Well aware that Watson wouldn't stop asking for clues until he'd guessed the opera, Holmes leaned forward with interest and sniffed. "Did you just shave?"

"Yes, I did," he admitted. Holmes lifted a hand to his cheek, running his thumb over the newly-smooth skin with a soft look in his eyes.

"I'm glad you came," he said cryptically when the cab stopped a block away from the opera house. Holmes got out first and held the door for Watson, then paid the cabbie.

They passed quickly through the entrance on the way to their seats, since neither particularly wanted to be accosted by a former client or patient or acquaintance of some sort. From glimpses of the posters around the staircase, Watson guessed, "_Aïda_?"

"What was that, Watson?" Holmes asked absently. "Ah, here we are?"

He opened the box door and they stepped inside. "I asked if the opera is _Aïda_," Watson repeated after they were seated.

Holmes beamed proudly. "Excellent! May I ask what led you to that conclusion?"

"The poster out front."

The grin vanished instantly from Holmes' face, and they spent the remaining half-hour before the lights dimmed debating the merits of using one obvious clue instead of many smaller ones.

"Their Radamès is quite good, isn't he?" Watson commented under his breath after the end of the opening piece. "Although I can't understand what he's saying. Singing. Whichever you'd like to call it."

Holmes' hand found Watson's in the darkness of the box. "Yes, quite," Holmes agreed, focusing intently on the stage as Radamès began the Celeste Aïda. Watson did the same, and was almost unsurprised when Holmes leaned over and began flawlessly translating the Italian in a low voice.

"You are the splendor of my life…"

* * *

**Yeah, I love Aida in addition to H/W (the musical, though, not the opera).**

**Many thanks go to Saloma-Kiwi, the sole reviewer of chapter 8. *hugs* Where'd the rest of you go? ;)**

**Thanks for reading!**


	10. At Your Leisure

**A/N:** Itty bitty chapter here for you guys...Sorry for the delay, I was watching Iron Man last night. And reeeeally enjoying the view. :D

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sherlock Holmes.

**Rating:** K+ for implied/referenced stuff

**Summary:** Holmes and Watson sleep a little later than they intended to. Movieverse.

* * *

Sunlight shifted over the two men in bed, filtering through the cracks in the curtains so that it angled into their eyes. Holmes, the inside of whose eyelids started burning orange, instantly woke and sat up, blocking the light from his eyes. After checking that nothing was amiss except for the open curtains, he went back to horizontal.

Apparently he'd shifted the bed too much, because Watson began to stir not long after. Even with his sleep-muddled thoughts he remembered that Watson had been tired for weeks, that he needed _sleep_, so he pulled Watson to his chest until he settled back into sleep again.

Holmes squinted over Watson's head at the sunlight, thinking that it seemed brighter than it usually was in the morning. _Perhaps less smog today?_ he wondered idly, rubbing one hand steadily across Watson's back. Watson muttered something unintelligible in his sleep and huffed lightly, his breath tickling Holmes' bare chest, then fell into a deeper sleep than before.

After about fifteen minutes Holmes sighed and gave Watson a gentle shake. "We have to meet a client at ten, you know," he murmured in Watson's ear as he gradually became aware of his surroundings.

"Do we?" Watson asked groggily.

"Mr. Timothy Barnes, a banker from Birmingham, who was robbed while visiting relatives in town. That's about all his letter said, apart from his seeing us here at ten if convenient—which it is. I'll need you there for specifics, if you don't mind."

Watson passed a hand over his ruffled hair to flatten it. "Not at all," he said through a yawn. "You said he's meeting us here?"

"Correct."

"Hmm, that's good. So that means we have some time before we have to meet him, doesn't it?" Watson reasoned, pulling Holmes down for a kiss.

"Cor—technically, we're supposed to _meet_ him at ten, so we have to get dressed at least—"

Outside, all the churches in the vicinity began ringing their bells, and Holmes paused in horror, expecting to hear ten peals. He sat upright and stared at Watson with frantic eyes, expecting some sort of solution.

"Best get dressed now, I suppose," he managed.

"Holmes, relax, it can't be later than nine," Watson reassured him.

The bells stopped after ringing four times.

Both of them paused that time, looking at each other in confusion. "We didn't get in that late last night, did we?" Watson asked, trying to remember.

Holmes shook his head. "We got in around midnight, and we stayed awake for another few hours with—well. I suppose it does make sense that we slept so late."

After a long pause, Holmes finally added, "There doesn't seem to be much benefit to getting up and about now."

"No, you'll have to reschedule with Mr. Barnes anyway," Watson agreed blandly.

"That can be done at any time today."

"At your convenience, really."

Holmes grinned. "Do you have any suggestions for occupying the time until I reschedule?"

"Many," Watson offered, twirling a lock of Holmes' black hair thoughtfully.

Holmes decided there were definitely benefits to having a lie-in. Timothy Barnes could wait.

* * *

**Poor Timothy Barnes. Holmes passed him over for Watson.**

**...Well, wouldn't anyone? ;)**

**Leave a review if you liked! Thanks to all who reviewed the last (two) chapters.**


	11. Weight

**A/N:** I'm really excited about getting this posted...this is my favorite chapter so far, written at my grandparents' house around 11 pm. (Which is strange, because I generally like longer movieverse fluff better, and yet this is short sad-with-a-happy-ending bookverse. Hmm.)

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sherlock Holmes in book, movie, or show form. But now I have the movie poster! :D

**Rating:** K+ for mentions of death

**Summary:** Watson's not yet recovered from Reichenbach and the hiatus. Post-hiatus, bookverse.

* * *

Watson woke with the invented image of Holmes plummeting to the bottom of the falls lingering in his mind.

But all he needed to do to recall that Holmes was alive, through that brief moment of terror in which the past two months seemed a dream, was simply wake up. The tall, thin frame sprawled across his body belonged to Holmes, as did the breath next to his ear and the hand burrowed beneath his shoulder. Watson knew what Holmes felt like next to him, and if Holmes was here then he really was alive, and everything from the last two months was real. _Holmes was alive._

Watson felt the tension leave him by degrees and focused on the feeling of Holmes' body across his own, anchoring himself in that reality until the nightmare completely vanished from his thoughts. After playing it almost nightly for three years, it seemed more like a memory than a dream, but the fact that it was imagined was currently sleeping unconcernedly on top of Watson.

With a sigh, Watson lifted a hand to Holmes' hair and combed his fingers through it lightly, feeling it spring back into curls. Holmes' hair had been curling for eight days now for reasons unbeknownst to either of them, though Watson suspected the recent humidity played a part in it. Of course, Holmes thought the gentle curls were a nuisance and made him look unkempt, as he'd explained while attacking his hair with a comb, but Watson liked it. As soon as he said as much the day before, Holmes stopped complaining, so it looked as though the curls would stay.

"Wa'son?" Holmes mumbled blearily, lifting his head an inch. "You're awake?"

"I am, but you can go back to sleep," Watson suggested in a hopeful whisper. Holmes needed sleep when he could get it, in accordance with his habit of staying awake for days at a time.

Holmes groaned and began to shift. "I'm sorry, I'm on top of you, I didn't mean to fall asleep like that…"

"No!" Watson protested, moving his hands to Holmes' waist to hold him in place. "Stay there. Please. As long as it's comfortable for you, that is."

To tell the truth, Holmes' weight spread across him comforted Watson more than the smaller signs of his presence. It was constant, and a constant reminder that Holmes was here.

"Very. Love you," Holmes muttered, already closing his eyes as he nuzzled closer in to Watson's neck. The pattern of Holmes' breathing evened out against his skin when Holmes almost immediately fell back into sleep.

That had been one of the most terrifying things about those three years. The supposed surety of never being able to tell Holmes that he loved him, that he'd been in love with him for years had been nearly unbearable, almost as much as the absence of Holmes himself. Now the three words worked towards healing the pain of three years, every time Holmes and Watson said them.

"I love you, Holmes."

* * *

**Hope you liked it! I'd love to hear feedback on this so I really appreciate every review.**


	12. Cold Feet

**A/N:** Hehe, pun in the title. Hope you guys like this. :)

I realized I unintentionally now have 4 chapters with 1-word titles, 4 chapters with 2-word titles, and 4 chapters with 3-word titles. Gah, my brain's keeping things balanced and symmetrical without me even realizing it.

And hey, even though this chapter is bookverse, next chapter is movieverse! Again. Because I forgot I'd done movieverse for several chapters. Um, whoops? But considering this is posted under the movie category, I'm going to assume you all are okay with oodles of movieverse. There's looking to be a long stretch of bookverse at some point, though...but I'll try to break it up. Ahem. Rambling. Stopping now. XD

**Disclaimer:** This is what, the twelfth time I've had to disclaim this? Jeez. I don't own Holmes or Watson.

**Rating:** T for one word not suitable for kiddies

**Summary:** Watson attempts to get what he wants, but Holmes is having none of it. Bookverse.

* * *

When Watson returned to the sitting-room after changing into dry clothes, he found Holmes reading the agony column from that day's paper on the settee. He took a seat sideways so that his back rested against the arm and his legs stretched out towards Holmes.

"Hello, love," Holmes greeted quietly, never taking his gaze from the paper. "Dry now, I presume?"

"All except my hair. Of course it would be me that had the misfortune to fall in the river," Watson said with regret.

Holmes' mouth twitched. "Ah, but there's a certain symmetry to that, don't you think? I fished you out this time as you did for me when I last fell in."

"I suppose there is. I'm still slightly chilled, however." Watson kept his eyes locked on the side of Holmes' face, watching carefully for his reaction.

"Would you like me to open a window? It's dreadfully hot outside; I'm sure you'd be warm in a matter of minutes." Holmes kept his voice and expression noncommittal as he made the offer.

Watson smiled briefly, thinking he should have expected an answer of that sort. "No, but I thank you. My feet are still quite cold, but it's tolerable enough everywhere else."

That directed Holmes' attention to Watson. With a mild grey glare, he said, "If that is supposed to be a subtle means of asking a question, my answer is no. I'm not going to rub your feet so you can regain warmth or any such nonsense."

"I didn't ask you to, but I'll bear that idea in mind for the future." Watson stretched his legs out more fully until his feet pressed against the side of Holmes' tweed-clad thigh.

Holmes made a loud harrumphing noise. "Certainly not, doctor."

"Please? I'm very cold," Watson wheedled, resolutely staring down the side of Holmes' face. It didn't appear to have any effect, so Watson applied just enough pressure to Holmes' leg to rock him to the side somewhat.

Holmes was unsuspecting enough that he didn't resist the brief movement, and by the time he tilted himself back upright Watson had darted his feet beneath him. Watson let out an exclamation of success and then winced.

"Fine, then, you've won," Holmes acknowledged unconcernedly, returning to the agony column.

"God, this is uncomfortable," Watson groaned.

A smirk turned up a corner of Holmes' mouth. "Meaning what?"

"Meaning your ass is bony, and you know it," Watson groused, scooting closer to Holmes to make himself more comfortable.

Holmes lifted an eyebrow but curled one arm around Watson's shoulders. "But now your feet are warm, or they are on their way to becoming so. Is that not what you wanted?"

Watson sighed. "I'm beginning to regret not merely putting on a pair of slippers."

"Nonsense, my dear," Holmes said briskly, laying a kiss on the tip of Watson's nose. He shifted so Watson could move further down underneath his leg, and Watson did so gratefully. "Better?"

"Much," Watson told him, resting his head on Holmes' shoulder. "Now that those oversized knitting needles you call bones aren't poking my feet."

Holmes snorted. "And you say I have a penchant for the dramatic. You've never called me bony before."

"Well, all I know is half the time I wake up in the morning because your elbow's digging into me," Watson retorted good-naturedly, snuggling closer.

"Good Lord, you're actually complaining about me. I never thought you had it in you, my admiring chronicler," Holmes remarked dryly. "Incidentally, all you've done is proven that my bones are as sharp as my mental faculties."

Watson chuckled and decided that drawing Holmes into comfortable banter like this was well worth a tumble into the river.

* * *

**Split second change on the ending here, but I like it better than the original. Thanks go to all my reviewers!**


	13. Contrast

**A/N:** This is...weird, frankly. There's no dialogue at all in this, because Holmes and Watson don't really need to speak to know what's going on with each other. I dunno, I guess the 13th chapter seems like the one to be experimental on. I honestly have no clue if anyone's going to like this, but I'm pretty happy with how this turned out. Always try new things, right?

Oh, and this one's very heavily movieverse, but only in terms of character appearances, really. Just picture RDJ and Jude Law; you know you want to... ;D

**Disclaimer:** When I own Sherlock Holmes, I'll let you know. Until then, I don't own it.

**Rating:** Um, K+ for slightly strange/derogatory thoughts? I have no clue how to rate this, honestly.

**Summary:** Holmes is introspective in the morning. What right does he have to Watson? Movieverse.

* * *

Holmes' eyes are open, their brown darker than usual and fixed on the expanse of pale skin in front of him. He knows that Watson is awake too, though he can't see his face from his position, head resting against Watson's chest. Watson has the uncanny ability to know what Holmes needs, and what Holmes needs right now is quiet. The absence of conversation, of new topics added to the list of things to think over, allows him to chip away at that list. His thoughts move where they will, occasionally building in a crescendo of intensity and then dying back down to bearable levels. To human levels, those experienced by every other person not given the double-edged capacity of great observation, to levels the very dear doctor next to him experiences.

Watson's mind is much more evenly gifted than his own lopsided one, he realizes. He has no gift for remembrance of the arts, or politics, or even medicine like Watson, except for those rare aspects that could aid in future investigations. Perhaps he would be so inclined, if he had not turned his mind to observation and deduction so early, but perhaps not. Even if he mulls this over for many hours like he does other complex problems, Holmes will never reach a concrete or satisfactory conclusion, so he doesn't bother himself with it any longer.

Instead, his thoughts flash rebelliously to the memory disturbing him the most, from a forgotten night in the past week. They needed some more money, as they sometimes do, and so found themselves at a boxing ring in an undesirable area of town. Holmes chatted up some of the spectators for hints on prospective opponents' weaknesses, completely at ease with these dregs of society. But Watson became uncomfortable when Holmes included him in the conversation, because Watson is good, a good man and a good doctor and a fantastic friend.

Good people don't deserve to be dragged into places full of bad people, not even when Holmes is doing the dragging. Especially when Holmes is doing the dragging, and least of all when Watson is the one being dragged. Holmes himself is on the borderline between good and bad, a reality that comes from his vices and his line of work.

Watson seems to have forgotten the incident, but it doesn't stop Holmes from remembering and dwelling on it. He readjusts his head and shifts his legs as much as he's able, which isn't much since his legs and Watson's are tangled together. Haltingly, Holmes lifts his hand from where it's lying between them and places it with great care on Watson's chest, his hand a dark stain against the pale skin.

Holmes feels Watson watching him, and the weight of his stare is light, curious, not unbearable. He can't repress the instinctual feeling that he doesn't deserve this, that light and dark don't mix. For all Watson's protestations, Holmes does carry a little bit of dark beyond his appearance: the compulsion to follow crime, the knowledge of humanity's evil and London's more unsavory secrets, even his abuse of the seven percent solution. But cocaine isn't Holmes' only addiction now.

Very slowly, he spreads his fingers, stretching and splaying them so that he gets more contact. Watson's attention visibly shifts from Holmes' quietly contemplative face to Holmes' hand, just as Holmes' thoughts shift away from the minute motion of his hand and come back to Watson. Try as he might to keep them elsewhere, they always come back to Watson.

It's unsurprising, really, considering Watson holds a willing monopoly on Holmes' social contact. With Watson as his colleague and fellow-lodger and friend and lover, he has no real need or desire for other human interaction, so Holmes otherwise deals with people directly related to his line of work and nothing more. He's aware it could be called unhealthy, this dependency on Watson for his company and even more so the fact that he knows he's dependent and doesn't care, but wouldn't Watson say something if that's the case? The man's a doctor; he would point out a potential problem. So far he's said nothing, so Holmes takes it that he doesn't need to worry.

Holmes suddenly begins inching up Watson's body, letting his nose and mouth brush over the places they fall to naturally as he moves up Watson's chest and neck. Finally Holmes and Watson are at eye level, with Holmes staring thoughtfully into the blue eyes that watched him since he woke, until his gaze flashes down to the mouth that hasn't yet formed any words this morning out of respect for Holmes' need to just stay still and think for a little while. He presses a kiss to that mouth, letting Watson know his thanks for understanding. From the way Watson's tongue slips inside his mouth, it seems that Watson doesn't require thanks, but Holmes knows Watson will accept affection whenever he offers it.

As for Holmes, he still feels like Watson's love is a gift to be treasured with infinite gratitude. And lying next to Watson, he's nothing if not infinitely grateful.

* * *

**...Well, if you survived all those chunks of text, I applaud you. Congrats for finishing. Reviews are always appreciated, but especially so on this chapter because I have no clue if it's any good or not. XD Also, if you guys like this, then I'm considering doing a companion chapter of this from Watson's POV that deals with the 'events' of this chapter (not that there really are any lol) and then goes past the end. If everyone says no, then I'll get back to the world of normal fluff and stuff for the next chapter. :)**

**Thanks for reading!**


	14. Teasing

**A/N: **The writer's block is gone, hallelujah! I've had it for three weeks and it's been positively awful-worst I've ever had. But I finally got out of it, so here's the next chapter! A huge thanks to all who have stuck around to read this after the ridiculously long wait.

**Disclaimer:** If you recognize it, I don't own it. (Also, this is totally unbeta'ed, so I disclaim any mistakes as my own silliness.)

**Rating:** T for, um...implications...

**Summary:** Holmes baits Watson in front of Lestrade-only Lestrade doesn't notice. Movieverse.

* * *

God, Lestrade could be boring at times. Watson had a great deal of respect for the Inspector, but after tracking down a pack of criminals with hardly a break in three days, he wanted to go _home_, not listen to the particulars of which constable caught which thief.

"It's alright, Watson, we'll be done soon," Holmes muttered, seemingly reading his thoughts. He kept his face turned to Lestrade, who was reading off the information from a few papers scattered across the desk.

A sigh almost escaped Watson, but he caught himself and fought it back as Lestrade pushed the papers across the desk and tilted it for Holmes to read. Holmes brushed his hand against Watson's in apology.

Oh no. It was that hand that got him in trouble last time, when it caused his brain to immediately stop. Holmes had been far from complaining about the treatment he'd been given afterwards, but honestly, how could Watson be held accountable for his actions when that hand bumped his?

All Holmes did was prop his chin up on his other hand, still staring unconcernedly at the paper as though he didn't notice that Watson had gone completely stiff next to him. It was a good thing Lestrade was too focused on explaining what Holmes likely already knew, or Watson would have to do some explaining on his own part.

"Clarke really did a good portion of the work in setting the trap, organizing the units and the like, but—"

"Yet you receive the credit for his job well done? I must say, the Yard continues to baffle me in that regard."

Even as Holmes delivered his expected disparaging remark, he brushed his fingers across the back of Watson's hand. Watson unfroze himself enough to level a glare at his partner, but Holmes only shot him an amused glance in return and brought his attention back to Lestrade.

Those fingers were doing more than lightly touching his now. Holmes slid his thumb up the side of Watson's hand and then across his knuckles, darting in to pluck at the vaguely webbed skin separating each digit. The whole time, Watson fought to keep silent, biting back the noises hovering in the back of his throat.

From the look on Holmes' face, he _must_ know what this was doing to Watson. He'd always had a secret fascination with Holmes' hands, though by all appearances it wasn't a secret any longer. God, Holmes had to know how this was affecting him, because he practically worshipped those hands in his writing.

This would teach him to think twice about what he put in print.

Abruptly, Holmes' thumb disappeared as he moved his hand above the desk to straighten the papers and push them back towards Lestrade. "You said there's one more thief that hasn't been caught yet?"

Lestrade flushed, and Watson would've sympathized with the Inspector ordinarily, but he was too busy being glad that Holmes was no longer intent on dismantling him. "That's right, but I've sent Clarke and a few others you don't know out to bring him in. We should have him within the hour if all goes well."

"Very good. See that you inform me when you do." Holmes dropped his hand below the top of the desk again and instantly seized Watson's hand, entangling their fingers and grinding Watson's between his own. The struggle to stay silent vanished out the window as Watson let a strangled gasp that drew a puzzled glance from Lestrade.

"Are you well, Dr. Watson?" Lestrade asked, leaning forward with a look of concerned bewilderment.

"I'm—I'm fine, I—" Watson fumbled for an explanation to hold Lestrade off until he could find an excuse to leave.

Quickly, Holmes shifted his hand to a less visibly intimate position covering Watson's. He lifted it above the desk, examining a spot of flawless skin he kept tilted away from Lestrade's view. "It appears you managed to cut yourself, Watson. Was it on the chair or the desk, I wonder?"

"It's just a scratch, really," Watson temporized, playing along.

Holmes shook his head. "We should be leaving, in any case. Wire me when you bring in that last thief." He stood and pressed his thumb over the imaginary cut as though applying pressure, tugging Watson to his feet in the process.

"I will. Terribly sorry, doctor," Lestrade apologized, rising as well.

"Nothing to be sorry about, I assure you," Watson said over his shoulder as Holmes hurried them out to the street.

He held his tongue until the cab lurched into motion, then gave Holmes' shoulder a hard shove. "That was completely unnecessary and frustrating, not to mention dangerous—I almost gave us away—and you'd _better_ repay me for this—"

Holmes slid to his knees and smiled at Watson. "I intend to," he said serenely from between his legs. "We have at least two minutes until we reach Baker Street."

Watson's eyes widened. "That isn't enough time, is it?"

Holmes, Watson discovered, was a fast worker.

* * *

**You have NO IDEA how badly I wanted to call this chapter 'Like a Vulcan' (only partly as a joke). Because seriously, even though hot handsex is traditionally reserved for Kirk and Spock, Watson is totally obsessed with Holmes' hands. It's practically canon. XD**

**Reviews are looooooooove. :) And I promise the next chapter won't take nearly as long to post!**


	15. Beautiful Things

**A/N:** Here you are! Beware: contains some schmoop at the end, so if you don't have an overdeveloped sweet tooth, blame the fact that the boys are drunk. Oh, and for that matter, I've never had alcohol so I'm basing this entire thing on other fics/movies/books etc. with drunk scenes. Woo. Hope I got it somewhat right-ish.

Oh, and apparently Muse has a song called Endlessly on their CD Absolution. Laugh with me, anyone? I totally didn't know that when I named this fic and Absolution, as my Muse addiction is somewhat recent. But I just thought that was kinda hilarious. :D

**Disclaimer:** I wish I owned, but I don't.

**Rating:** T for alcohol

**Summary:** Beautiful things happen when they're drunk. Movieverse.

* * *

They're both beyond drunk, Holmes realizes, squinting across the table at Watson. The doctor, usually reserved among others, leans casually against the edge of the table, laughing at a joke the sailor next to him has just told. His cheeks are flushed, his collar is loose, and his sleeves are rolled to his elbows. Usually only Holmes sees him like this.

It proves without a doubt that Watson is drunk, without Holmes even knowing how many drinks he's consumed.

Watson notices he's returned and his expression becomes so instantly joyful that even through the vague haze surrounding him, Holmes has to pause to appreciate it. After a minute he realizes Watson's gesturing for Holmes to join him and his new sailor friend at their card game and complies readily.

"Kovar," the sailor mutters by way of introduction, dealing out cards for Holmes and one other newcomer. Holmes is feeling more than a little hazy now, but he remembers to nod in Kovar's direction and mumble his own name.

"Holmes, Edmund's been tellin' me 'bout the North Sea!" The excess of drink allows Watson to show more of his enthusiasm than he would when sober, and Holmes hasn't yet decided if that's good or bad.

Already studying his cards, Holmes pats Watson distractedly on the leg to acknowledge the news. "'N how much exactly have his stories cost you?" He lets genuine affection temper the words that, if they weren't slightly slurred, might sound harsh.

"Not much—I haven't even lost half 'a what I came with!" Watson beams triumphantly, and Holmes gulps down some of the drink in his hand. He can't remember what kind of alcohol it is, and he knows he has to retain enough of his wits to win this game, but he needs to forget what Watson just said.

Roughly half an hour later, Holmes collects almost all of Kovar's money and about the same from the other man.

"You cheated, didn't you?" The still-anonymous man speaks accusingly and half-stands from his chair.

Holmes eyes him with a feeling similar to contempt. It's not his fault he can tell the man's card situation just as easily as he can tell he's a manual laborer from downriver, widower, lives within a few blocks' radius…even though Holmes has done an admirable job of getting drunk. Thank goodness the observations that are useful in cards are second nature from his line of work.

Ignoring the man, Holmes grips Watson by the elbow and begins leading him away from the table, towards the door so they can leave. But—wait, where's the door gone? Holmes spins to locate it, and the room obligingly spins along with him to keep him company. Watson does, too.

The door isn't too hard to find after that, and they make it out to the street. It's more of an alley, he notes detachedly, but that doesn't matter. Holmes takes in a few deep lungfuls of the stale air, which tastes cleaner than the air inside.

"Holmes, I need to sit." The small, childlike voice is Watson, who's crouched by the wall of the next building. Holmes crouches beside him and runs a hand up and down his back in a confused attempt to offer comfort.

"S'alright, Wa'son. Take your time."

It takes a good ten minutes, but Watson finally raises his head and fixes Holmes with a look full of gratitude and…adoration, strangely enough. Holmes can't help but take a moment to stare unabashedly.

It's not his fault when the words slip from his mouth, either. "You're beautiful, you know."

Watson's expression goes even softer, and soon they're kissing like two drunk fools too in love to care they're in an alley. Because really, that's exactly what they are.

* * *

**Aww, they're such saps at heart. Review if you liked! Or, you know, if not. I love reviews either way 'cuz I'm shameless like that. XD**


	16. Doctoring

**A/N:** Well, this is why I put 'periodically' in the summary. School and college apps have officially taken over my life, but I should be done soon, and then hopefully I'll have more time for writing! Cross your fingers with me!

(I was thinking of this as the event mentioned in the beginning of Chapter 3, by the way.)

**Disclaimer:** Don't own, never will.

**Rating:** T for blood/violence (not a happy chapter)

**Summary:** Holmes gets shot, and he can only put up with one doctor... Movieverse.

* * *

Watson's barely holding off his attacker when he hears the gunshot.

He can't turn to look, can't run to Holmes' side because that might mean a similar treatment for him, and what doctor would patch up Holmes then?

So he continues fighting, darting in to land blows on the thick man with his cane when he can. The knowledge that Holmes is hurt and the lack of knowledge about the severity of his wound lends a desperate danger to Watson's movement, and despite several knife marks making their way onto his arms, Watson ends as the victor.

Before he turns to find Holmes, Watson sees a small shape at the top of the alley. Hoping it's one of Holmes' street Arabs, he shouts to him, "Get the nearest policeman, quickly!"

The boy runs off, at least, and Watson chooses to take that as a good sign. He spins and takes off, not even feeling the pain that usually reappears in his leg when he moves at any pace faster than a walk. The man Holmes was fighting is bent nearly double, stooped over a form Watson can't see well but can guess at.

The other man doesn't seem to hear Watson coming and continues dragging his burden along, and once Watson gets close enough he can see it's definitely Holmes. His breath catches when his doctor's eyes spot the hole torn in Holmes' midsection, and he starts running faster because dammit, Holmes needs a doctor a minute ago.

Watson cracks his cane against the man's head with more force than strictly necessary, but he doesn't care much about his oath right now. He lowers Holmes' head gently to the ground and peels back the fabric over his stomach to see how much damage was done.

Holmes' eyes fly open, and he manages a weak smile and a fond look. "I'm feeling poorly, doctor."

Watson actually _growls_ as he applies pressure to keep the blood in, and Holmes looks like he might've laughed if not for the pain. Finally, _finally_ he hears a policeman coming, followed by the boy from before, both of them rushing down the alley.

"I called for a cab, sir," the boy says, and Watson vaguely recalls him from the line-up and reporting that occurs in their sitting-room once a week. Henry, he thinks his name is.

"Thank you." Addressing the constable, Watson says, "I needs help getting Holmes to the cab, and then you can take these men in. They shot Mrs. Randolph yesterday."

After that, Watson speaks only to Holmes, trying to keep him awake on the ride to the hospital. It works until just before they go into surgery, which leaves Watson to balance anesthesia and then operate, hoping it'll work. He doesn't trust any of the other doctors there at the time to assist in so delicate a situation, so Watson ends up performing the surgery alone.

Holmes makes it through the procedure, at least, though there's no way of knowing the internal damage won't continue to pose a problem. By the time Watson sets him up in a hospital bed and returns from finding a chair, he's conscious again.

"You look dreadful," Holmes notes, tone softening the slightest bit in teasing. "What time is it?"

"Very early in the morning—must be three by now. And of course I look dreadful; I've just spent hours getting acquainted with your innards."

Holmes grimaces. "Lovely. How are they, may I ask?"

Watson's hands still on the covers and his gaze flicks tellingly towards the end of the bed. "The bullet missed most major organs, including your stomach, thankfully, but it did take out part of your kidney. I stitched that and cleaned you out as much as I could, but there's still a chance of infection or—"

"Thank you," Holmes interrupts quietly, reaching for Watson's hand. Watson obliges, and Holmes squeezes it gently and lets go. "I made an imbecilic mistake, but I'm glad you were able to fix me up. I don't like doctors, you know," he confides, as though it's anything but obvious.

Watson chuckles wearily. "I do know, dear boy. It's a good thing I was your flatmate before I became your doctor, or I doubt you'd even put up with me."

"True," Holmes admits. "Now, I don't suppose I could prevail upon you to return to Baker Street for some rest?"

"Not a chance."

"Then sleep here," Holmes suggests. "I'm willing to let other doctors near me while you're resting. I'll thank you to be awake and fully functioning in the morning, though."

Watson smiles, lowering his head to the mattress. Positioned as he is in the chair, it isn't very comfortable, but he's not particular about comfort at the moment. "I said I wouldn't ever argue your logic, Holmes," he mumbles, his eyelids already dropping shut.

Holmes snorts lightly and places a hand on the sleeping doctor's head before he, too, falls asleep.

* * *

**Not that slashy, but review anyway? Please? :)**


	17. On Without End

**A/N:** First off: Merry Christmas, everyone! And Happy Holidays to those who don't celebrate Christmas. :)

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sherlock Holmes, Christmas, or Carol of the Bells (which is what the title's from).

**Rating:** K

**Summary:** Christmas at Baker Street. Any 'verse you like.

* * *

They tell everyone who asks that they don't celebrate the holiday beyond exchanging gifts with friends. Holmes mentions that it's far from the original meaning, so his reason is protestation, and Watson quietly reveals he has unpleasant memories from his overly religious father, so his reason is avoidance. Everyone nods, and nobody asks again. The line even works on Adler, who can usually see through most lies due to her complete mastery of them.

In reality, once they escort Mrs. Hudson to the station so she can visit her son, they do celebrate the holiday. On the evening before, they sit on the settee in front of the fire—because it is _always_ cold at that time of year—sometimes curling together, sometimes not. Holmes sets out his present for Watson on the end table, since they don't bother with a tree. Watson, for his part, never sets out Holmes' presents, because then he runs the risk of Holmes deducing what's underneath the wrappings based on the size of the box and how it reflects sound when he chirps at it, or some such test. Watson still doesn't believe that Holmes can echolocate effectively, but he doesn't want to ruin the surprise, so the presents stay hidden within his practice.

They retire to bed obscenely early and wake obscenely late, since it's one of the only times they're both guaranteed to be free from work. In the morning, they dress and eat a light breakfast, then Watson unlocks his practice with a "Stay there!" thrown over his shoulder. Holmes is always waiting, exactly as he was, when he returns.

There are more presents this year—two wrapped ones of equal size from Watson and three wrapped ones from Holmes. "Open yours first," Watson prompts, pushing the packages across the floor. Holmes gives in and removes the wrappings as Watson watches intently.

"Lockler's new treatise on bullet recovery—excellent! And this one…"

He opens the unmarked book and finds it's a collection of a few of Watson's stories, most of which are about their cases. All are handwritten, and Holmes wonders how Watson found out his secret admiration for the doctor's neat handwriting. As much as he grumbles about Watson's version of their cases, he really does enjoy them, so he tips back his head and laughs freely. "Thank you, Watson! Are they previously published ones?"

"No, they're new. Set to print in next week's edition of the _Strand_. Oh, and I thought you might like this as well," Watson adds, taking off the waistcoat he bought a few days ago and handing it to Holmes. "Don't think I didn't see you eyeing it."

Holmes accepts the waistcoat and slips it on, grinning. "Your turn," he announces, handing the boxes to Watson. They turn out to hold a grey hat to replace the one lost in the sewers two months ago, a notebook for his stories, and a pen.

_For JW from SH_, it says, and the sight of the engraving makes Watson far happier than it should, despite the fact that it's likely only there so that Holmes doesn't forget and use it in one of his experiments. Watson beams and leans over Gladstone, who's merrily snuffling around their feet, and warps Holmes in a loose hug.

"I have tickets for the Bowman recital tonight, as well," Holmes reveals, earning him another bright smile.

They take Gladstone for a walk later, all three braving the cold so the dog can flounder joyously around in the snow. It's deserted enough that Holmes and Watson can link arms for both closeness and warmth, though by the time they return they're half-frozen anyway. Holmes makes dinner, which he's done often enough by now that Watson openly acknowledges he's an excellent cook, and after they eat they have a drink by the fire to complete the thawing process.

"Ready to go?" Watson asks a few hours later as he waits in the front hall. When Holmes appears, Watson drops a light kiss on his cheek.

Holmes seems surprised. "Any reason in particular for that?" he asks, pulling on his gloves.

Watson shrugs and says, "Thank you for the presents."

There's a broad smile from Holmes in response. "You as well, my dear. Now, shall we?"

As they leave, their fingers brush and they begin predicting the next year's round of cases—just as they do every Christmas.


	18. Letter's Close

**A/N:** Turned out slightly angsty and a lot different than I thought it would, but I wanted to get a chapter out to you guys!

Also, I'll take requests for chapters-I still have plenty of ideas, but if you have something you want written then you can shoot me a PM or mention it in a review. Might not get done, but I'll try. (I don't even know if anyone's interested, but the offer's there because I LOVE YOU GUYS. Srsly.)

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Sherlock Holmes or The Final Problem, which is referenced several times in here.

**Rating:** T for mentions of impending doom

**Summary:** He really should have told Watson before this. Bookverse, one-sided H/W.

* * *

Holmes spotted the letter in the Swiss boy's hand and began walking closer to Watson. Of course, it seemed to be for the purposes of a private remark, so Watson allowed it without thought and even leaned closer himself. "A message from Steiler, Watson," Holmes observed. "Likely for you, as I can see no reason why his hotel would need my services."

"The mark on the letter?"

It seemed that Watson had learned a few habits over the course of their partnership, to be able to guess what had led Holmes to that assumption. "Yes. Though—"

Holmes was about to say that he had no idea why Steiler would send someone after them so soon after leaving. However, judging from the boy's fresh appearance, he had not been running all the way from Englischer Hof, meaning that Steiler had not sent him.

Moriarty had.

Closing his eyes briefly, Holmes cursed their bad luck—no getting out of this one, not with Watson here. The risk was too great on the soft-soiled path by the falls. He'd been a fool to take Steiler's advice, well-meant though it was, which put them in a one-way path with a cliff face on one side and the deep falls on the other.

"Yes, Holmes?" Watson turned towards him, expression open and unsuspecting. He had no idea of the potential for danger, even after all the happenings before they left England and since their arrival on the Continent. Hopefully, with Holmes cornered and ready to face Moriarty, the professor might not harm Watson.

"Nothing, sorry," Holmes muttered. Bloody foolish to visit the falls, bloody _foolish_ to let his cowardice prevent him from telling Watson what he should have… "Why don't you go see what Steiler's written?"

The invention of the dying English woman at the hotel was a clever one, Holmes had to admit, as it played marvelously on Watson's instincts as a doctor. At least it gave him assurance that Moriarty wouldn't have Watson killed, if he had gone to such lengths to draw the doctor away and get Holmes alone. Holmes distractedly discussed the particulars of the journey to Rosenlaui with Watson—not that it mattered anymore—and finally convinced his companion that he would be fine walking on alone, especially if he kept the Swiss boy with him as a guide to the area.

"Take all the time you wish in getting there, as I'm sure I'll be several hours," Watson went on, folding the note once more. The fact that it was the third such time refolding the note indicated that he felt ill at ease leaving Holmes to travel without him. Good instincts, though they didn't serve any useful purpose because Holmes meant to meet Moriarty anyway. "The tour of the town will have to wait until morning, but with any luck, we can at least catch a late dinner when I return."

"I'll wait up for you," Holmes said lowly, feeling a desperate pain tearing apart his chest at the thought of Watson leaving. Knowing that Moriarty was coming only made the separation more difficult.

Watson smiled fondly at him. "I'll see you tonight, Holmes."

No, he wouldn't, because Holmes could very well be dead by then, and Holmes wanted so badly to reach out and tell Watson that he did feel, that he'd been feeling for _years_ now—

Watson started up the path and Holmes didn't say anything, leaning heavily against the cliff face and folding his arms to contain the need to call Watson back. The Swiss boy left soon after that, and then Moriarty arrived, and Holmes asked for a moment to write a note for his friend.

Moriarty was agreeable enough, considering they were finally on even footing, and allowed him a few minutes to compose a message. Except for a few personal statements directed to Watson, most of the letter dealt with the business with Moriarty, along with instructions for finding the evidence against the rest of his gang.

Holmes paused after mentioning all his legal affairs were in order, debating whether he should make a more personal mention at the letter's close. He didn't have enough time or writing space to offer sufficient explanation or apologies, and he doubted Watson would take kindly to an unexpected _I love you_ thrown in at the end. Keeping it hidden would be best for Watson and would keep his memory untarnished.

Resigned, Holmes added a greeting to Mrs. Watson—though he couldn't outright say that he envied her, he could at least allude to the enviable fact that she would remain with Watson—and signed the letter.

"Are you finished?" Moriarty inquired softly from behind him. "If you leave it against the cliff, I don't believe it will fall."

Strange to hear the brilliant professor speaking in such a kind voice over the loud falls. Holmes shook his head, secured the note under his cigarette-case, and left it atop one of the boulders on the path.

Turning, he faced Moriarty, framed by the spray from the falls. Time to put Watson out of mind, if he could. "I am."


	19. Empty

**A/N:** I'm so sorry this took so long to get written! Also, this chapter is a sequel to Chapter 18 and, as I just realized, works nicely as a prequel to Chapter 11. Woo, continuity! (Sort of.)

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sherlock Holmes, including The Adventure of the Empty House, which is referenced in here (and is where the title comes from).

**Rating:** T for mentions of suicide

**Summary:** Holmes returns. Bookverse.

* * *

When he saw Watson outside Adair's house, he had to clench his hand to force away the remembered ache. It had been ages since he had felt, properly _felt_ something other than contempt or annoyance or anger towards a person, and the sudden feeling that he experienced was quite unexpected. He wouldn't have recognized it by itself, if not for the still-sharp memories of his affection for Watson.

But there was a case on, and he had to get Moran into police custody before he could even think of having a safe reunion with his best and only friend. After, he had no such limitation, and his initial joy dissolved in the tense hours after Moran's arrest, while they took up their old places in the sitting-room.

Unsurprisingly, Holmes ruined what should have been a relieved, amiable chat by the fireside. After only an hour of catching up—Holmes regaled Watson with stories of his global adventures, while Watson succinctly summed up Mary's illness and his increasing involvement in his practice after her death—Holmes made the mistake of appearing to have fond memories of his travels.

Watson's fist tightened over the fabric of his trousers, serving as the first visible sign of his irritation. "It sounds like you had a pleasant time of it," he remarked, obviously forcing his voice to be polite. Holmes tilted his head to the side, noticing the tension radiating from the set of Watson's mouth and shoulders.

"As it sounds like you did not," Holmes acknowledged, refusing to let on about the misery that had accompanied him during the three years past. "Would you like to elaborate, my dear?"

Watson surprised him with a hard glare. "You make it seem like you had a grand time on your adventures, like you had no difficulty whatsoever in abandoning your previous life. Tell me, do you intend to stay here for any appreciable length of time, or will you depart again immediately?"

"Nonsense." Holmes realized the depths of Watson's resentment then, and regretted his assumed nonchalance in speaking of his traveling. He didn't even seem truly angry at Holmes, merely upset at the situation, but the fact that he was openly frustrated spoke volumes. Watson rarely became so agitated. "I won't leave you—"

"Won't leave me again? You've already left me once, so how can I expect you to actually stay this time?" Watson stood and moved over to the fire, speaking to the grate to avoid looking at Holmes. "I don't think you understand how difficult the past three years have been, but it was difficult enough that twice I had a gun in hand. Once was after I'd finished writing up the piece on Reichenbach, and the second was after Mary's funeral. Both of you were gone, then."

The anger seemed to leave Watson all at once, deflating his posture and tone. Quietly, he said, "I don't wish to repeat the experience of being without you once more."

Slowly, Holmes joined him at the fire, placing one hand on Watson's shoulder in apology. "It was misleading of me to have spoken so charitably of the previous three years," he said in a low voice. "They were, in fact, difficult for me to bear as well. My affection for you surpasses legal boundaries, to put it kindly, and made me wish to return as soon as I could. I never wished you pain, Watson."

To his merit, Watson did not flinch away—Holmes hadn't expected his abrupt admission, either, but felt relieved when Watson only acknowledged it with a tired nod, accepting his confession and apology all at once. "I should not have shouted at you," Watson murmured in return.

The corner of Holmes' mouth twitched upward as he stroked his thumb soothingly over Watson's shoulder. "You have borne my behavior for so long that I believe one instance of scolding is easy to forgive," he countered with good humor, glad to feel the tension between them dissipating. "Now, I'm positive I stashed a fine bottle of port in the bookcase, if you'd like to share—"

"Holmes." Watson caught his arm and turned to him, hesitant, tone colored with repressed warmth. "You really have nothing further to say on the matter of your affections?"

"Of course not. I merely wished to explain my actions, not to make you feel pressured in any way."

"Even if I return them?"

Holmes paused, furrowing his brow as he considered. "Well, then that changes matters."

Watson's smile reached his eyes, the hazel finally lighting for the first time since Holmes removed his disguise. Leaning up, he kissed Holmes lightly on the cheek, steadying himself with a hand on one narrow shoulder. "I thought you had deduced it in the decade of our association, to be honest. It never fully disappeared, even during my marriage."

"Unfortunately my deductive skills are often lacking in the area of personal relationships, particularly those in which I am involved," Holmes answered regretfully. "However, I did hope—"

"As did I," Watson said, cutting him off without seeming to impose, tugging Holmes down this time instead of leaning up. Their mouths met clumsily, mostly due to Holmes' utter inexperience in the area, though he knew enough to follow Watson's lead. Despite being artless and more than a little awkward due to the difference in their heights, it felt easy, natural, just like their former living arrangements.

They broke apart after a minute, and Holmes rested his forehead against Watson's. With the crackle of the fire in the background, he laced their fingers together and breathed deeply, closing his eyes and letting himself feel freely again.


	20. A Private Celebration

**A/N:** THIS IS OVER 1000 WORDS, SO SUE ME. (Can I just call it a birthday treat? I've (barely) managed to post it on the right day, after all.)

**Disclaimer:** I have never and will never own Sherlock Holmes.

**Rating:** K+

**Summary:** Watson's birthday! Except Holmes is away on a case. Movieverse.

* * *

"Mrs. Hudson?" Watson called through the door, knocking on the wood again.

A minute later, he heard the scrabbling sound of the latch coming undone, and the landlady peered out from the other side of the door. "My apologies for the delay, dear. What can I do for you?"

"I had the idea to go out to dinner for my birthday," Watson began, "and I was wondering if you might accompany me. Otherwise I'll be all alone, and the prospect doesn't sound very appealing."

Mrs. Hudson appeared to hover on the edge of indecision for a few seconds. "I—"

Watson leaned slightly against the doorframe, hoping to secure an answer in the affirmative. He'd hoped to do something special that day, but with Holmes out of town on a case, he had a limited supply of friends available for dinner plans. If he couldn't get her to agree, he'd probably spend the night in, browsing through medical journals or something equally ordinary. "Are you free at seven this evening?"

"Ah…yes," Mrs. Hudson replied, looking slightly uncomfortable. "Are you certain you don't wish to celebrate with Mr. Holmes? I'd love to accompany you, of course, but I would think the two of you would want to dine together. Unless you're fighting again…?"

"No, nothing like that," Watson dismissed, trying to ignore the small but growing knot of disappointment seated deep within his chest. "He's on a case in the north of England. Someone very important is paying very handsomely for his undivided attention in recovering a government document, so he left a few days ago. You didn't notice his absence?"

Her expression shifted from bemusement to something affectionately dark. "Oh, I noticed his absence, certainly. I just thought he was in one of his moods, locking himself in his room for the second time this month."

Watson laughed, then, and the knot in his chest loosened slightly. "Not this time, but I fully expect that to happen soon. I'll come by at seven, if that's all right."

"Perfectly fine, dear," she said, smiling indulgently as she shut the door.

The restaurant was relatively quiet when they arrived, despite the numerous diners packed inside. As they approached their table, Watson heard a boisterous voice calling his name over the conversations at the nearby tables, and turned to see a recent patient of his seated at a table with his family. By the looks of it, they had just started eating.

"Dr. Watson, why don't you two join us? I'm much obliged for treating George so quickly last week," Mr. Marvin said, gesturing towards the table. "I'm sure they can make room for you at our table."

Watson glanced at Mrs. Hudson, who gave a minute shrug to indicate that she had no preference. He couldn't see any way of refusing without seeming ungrateful, so he acceded to the request gracefully. As he took a seat in one of the chairs a waiter brought over, he introduced Mrs. Hudson to the rest of the family.

"Dr. Watson, have you met our Annie?" Mrs. Marvin asked. "I don't believe she was in the house when you paid a visit to George."

"Pleased to meet you," he greeted politely, reaching out to warmly but gently grip her hand. He wasn't certain, but he thought he caught a particular gleam in Mrs. Marvin's eyes when he did so.

As the dinner progressed, bringing with it an excellent seafood dish and even more excellent wine, their motive for inviting him along became clear. The pointed looks, the leading questions, and the delighted laugh Mrs. Marvin tossed his way when he complimented Annie's taste in music suggested the Marvins hoped he might develop romantic inclinations towards their daughter. He wasn't offended in the slightest—they had no way of knowing that the inclinations he possessed were otherwise occupied up north. In any case, the Marvins and Mrs. Hudson were entertaining company on a night he would have otherwise spent alone, and he was grateful for their presence at the dinner.

By the time he and Mrs. Hudson returned to Baker Street, Watson's mood was significantly improved and the knot in his chest was nearly nonexistent. Nearly, because while he would have preferred to celebrate with Holmes, just the two of them like Mrs. Hudson had suggested, he would get a chance at that next year.

As for this particular year, Watson spent half an hour reading medical journals like he had predicted before he was ready to retire. When he emerged from his bedroom clad in his dressing gown, he heard the lock rattle several times. He put his hand by his cane, resting against a side table, in case the intruder proved to be unfriendly, but after a pause the doorknob turned with a key and admitted a windswept Holmes.

"I—Hello," Watson said, completely confused by Holmes' sudden appearance. "Case finished?"

"Good evening," Holmes replied, sending a dour look in the direction of the doorknob. "Unfortunately, the case is not finished, though with any luck it will be soon. I can only take a few hours' leave from the client's town, though there won't be any further developments tonight. I'm reasonably certain my suspect will sleep through the night."

"'Reasonably certain?'" Watson asked, not believing Holmes would leave the outcome of a case up to chance.

A small, weary smile tugged at the corner of Holmes' mouth. "That is to say, I slipped a drug into his drink so that he'll sleep soundly for several hours. It's crude, but I had to think of a way to ensure that I could slip away for a quick visit. Happy birthday, Watson."

He hadn't expected it, but that only made him more appreciative of the visit. When Holmes moved forward to embrace him, Watson clung tightly to his lover, noticing the smells of travel that overlaid Holmes' usual scent of chemicals and tobacco smoke. Despite his distinctly road-worn condition, Watson pushed Holmes in the direction of the settee while he went and prepared twin glasses of brandy.

Holmes lifted his glass briefly in thanks. "Anything of note today?" he inquired, reaching out to take Watson's hand in his own.

Watson shrugged. "I went to work, then dinner with Mrs. Hudson and a patient's family. It was quite pleasant, actually."

"Ah."

Watson quirked an affectionate smile in Holmes' direction. "I still wish you could have been here, if that's what you're worried about."

"Worried? Not me, old boy," Holmes dismissed quickly, standing in an abrupt motion. Watson suppressed another amused smile and watched the detective begin rifling through a stack of files in one of the bookcases, finally emerging with a medium-sized box. He thrust it towards Watson and reclaimed his seat. "Here's your present—it's not much, but you know how I am with presents."

The box contained a new grey waistcoat, presumably to replace the one that Holmes had accidentally torn while attempting to divest Watson of his clothing nine days ago. "I had them make it your size, not mine. That way I can't steal it," Holmes explained, sounding like he was not entirely thrilled at the prospect.

"You and I both know the size of my clothes won't stop you," Watson said forgivingly. "I really appreciate it, Holmes. How long can you stay?"

Holmes glanced at the clock on the mantel. "Only another hour, at the most. Is that long enough?"

Considering that the visit was a barely-arranged surprise, Watson could be content with the time that Holmes could spare at the moment. Leaning closer for a birthday kiss, he agreed, "Long enough."


	21. Weather Like This

**A/N:** This chapter has been sitting around for a while, but I thought I'd break it out in honor of the ridiculous heat we're getting now. Anyone else sweltering? Reviews will lower the heat by five degrees wherever you live! I CAN MAKE IT HAPPEN.

**Disclaimer:** Definitely don't own SH.

**Rating:** T, barely.

**Summary:** Summer is hot, and that makes Holmes and Watson sad. Good thing Watson can problem-solve... Movieverse.

* * *

"Good Lord, Holmes, is that fire?" Watson asked in disbelief, tearing off his necktie and jacket as he stepped through the door. "It's hot enough outside as it is, don't you think?"

Holmes glanced up from his experiment, then cast a guilty look towards the Bunsen burner on the table. "Yes, I suppose it's quite warm out," he hedged, turning off the flame reluctantly. "How was work today?"

"The work part was fine, but the day was absolutely unbearable because of this blasted weather. Did you get any cases?"

"Unfortunately, no. It seems the heat has kept any potential clients indoors." Holmes stood as Watson removed the last of his outer layers, only keeping on his underclothes. "You sit, and I'll fetch you something to eat."

Watson settled bonelessly into the settee, too tired to disobey Holmes' directions. A few minutes later, he found himself fidgeting. He fervently wished the fabric covering the seat wasn't so warm from the incessant heat wave of the past several days. By the time Holmes returned with a tray of small sandwiches and a chilled bottle of wine, Watson had migrated to the center of the room, where he sat cross-legged on the stained wooden floorboards.

"Here, old boy. This should help." Holmes divided the sandwiches into two portions and doled out generous glassfuls of the Chardonnay.

The first several sips cooled his insides a little, but ultimately didn't provide much aid for Watson's overheated body. Instead of verbalizing that fact, Watson thanked Holmes profusely for taking care of supper and focused on their conversation, which wandered from criticism of Scotland Yard's investigative procedure to half-hearted wishes of attending the Mendelssohn performance the next week.

"I'll take these dishes downstairs so that you can get back to experimenting," Watson offered when they finally finished their meal. "I'm going to draw a bath afterwards, so I won't be in your way. Don't worry about the extra heat if you want to keep experimenting."

Holmes nodded and retreated to his chemistry workbench, already absorbed in it by the time Watson walked past him to the washroom.

The cool water felt blissful, to say the least, and Watson stayed soaking it in until he felt ready for sleep. At that point, almost two hours later, he levered himself out of the bathtub, dried off, and headed for bed—

—where Holmes, evidently, was waiting for him. A browned arm wrapped around his bare torso as Holmes plastered himself against Watson's back, pressing kisses to the nape of his neck.

Watson shut his eyes regretfully. "Holmes."

Holmes sighed and rolled away, giving his lover a wry smile as Watson mirrored his position. "I agree, it's too hot. Perhaps it will be cooler in the morning?"

"There hasn't been any sign that this weather will let up any time soon. We can always wish for some rain overnight, though." Watson lightly brushed his fingers over the back of Holmes' hand, cursing the heat for a different reason this time.

Holmes' response was a frown as he lifted Watson's hand for examination. "Watson," he announced, still frowning deeply, "you are wrinkled."

The ridiculous and obvious statement nearly made Watson roll his eyes. Instead, he snatched his hand away and turned on his side. "Goodnight, Holmes."

A minute later, he fully processed the implications of Holmes' words. Watson suddenly stood and gestured for Holmes to follow as he walked out of the bedroom. Once he reached the washroom, he turned the tub faucet on to full power.

Holmes emerged in the doorway, attempting to flatten his wild hair. "What are we doing in here?" he inquired, eyeing the tub with distaste.

"I am problem-solving." Watson paused for emphasis, letting his gaze linger on the detective's untamed mass of hair. "You are part of the solution, which has the added bonus of making you clean."

Holmes appeared torn between going to his lover and fleeing from the threat of soap. Finally, after Watson slipped into the water and sent an expectant look in his direction, he gave in and approached the tub. "I'll have you know that I am currently under duress," he declared, stripping out of his nightclothes and settling between Watson's outstretched legs. For all his protestations, he let out a relieved sigh as the cool water surrounded him. His irritated mumblings ceased, and he rested against Watson's chest quite contentedly.

The doctor graciously allowed him a few minutes of peaceful rest before reaching for the soap and taking aim at Holmes' hair. He planned on getting Holmes clean, then rewarding his forbearance in a manner that both of them would find gratifying.

_Problem-solving, indeed,_ he thought, and began scrubbing.


	22. Forbidden

**A/N:** So I realized I hadn't done, like, _any_ chapters directly involving cases. And then I looked at the chapter list twenty seconds ago and realized that while it wasn't as bad as I thought, I still am writing a disproportionately small number of chapters with a case actually _in_ them, not just mentioned.

Therefore, this.

Also, this is sort of a prequel chapter to the next one, so be prepared for more bookverse! Bgranger1990, you know what I mean. ;)

**Disclaimer:** I really want to say I own SH, but that would be a lie.

**Rating:** T for brief sex and nakedness

**Summary:** Watson observes Holmes on a case. Bookverse.

* * *

At the start of their relationship, Holmes informed Watson that all intimate activity is off-limits during cases. Honestly, Watson thought it would be more of a hardship than it actually is.

During the periods between cases—usually brief, which Watson soundly prefers, because it takes all of his charm and most of his energy to keep Holmes busy and _away_ from the seven percent solution for more than a week—the ban is lifted, of course. Both of them thoroughly enjoy the first few days, in all ways possible, but when a case eventually comes, Holmes returns to his profession with carefully concealed, almost undetectable delight.

Watson is surprised to find that he often follows just as happily.

His lover is glorious in the middle of a case, wholly dedicated to the work that, to him, is as necessary as breathing and more necessary than trivialities such as food and sleep. As an observer, Watson finds it fascinating to watch the detective examine a problem from all angles in the comfort of his chair, unconsciously feeding his pipe as he blinds himself to the physical world and loses himself in thought. He knows that Holmes finds it liberating to be able to exercise his entire intellect, instead of simply using the measly portion of his brain required to navigate through everyday existence. The pipe helps speed his thinking along, perhaps, but all the ability is housed within Holmes' mind.

That isn't to say that it's easy to let Holmes leave, on the inevitable occasion when he has to investigate a facet of his client's life or pursue a suspect through the city's underbelly. On those occasions, Watson unsuccessfully attempts to stop his worrying while remaining at home or, sometimes, when the circumstances of the case permit…

"Care to accompany me, Watson?"

Watson folds down the top of his newspaper on the third day of the case and offers a good-natured smile. "I thought you'd never ask. No disguises this time, I hope."

Elegantly, Holmes unfolds himself from his chair and sets the pipe aside. His face reveals nothing as he offhandedly comments, "Oh, no. However, I would advise you to bring your pistol along. Our suspect possesses a particular brand of…unpredictability."

The cab ride is spent in silence, with Watson fingering the pistol in his jacket pocket and sneaking glances at Holmes, who is absorbed in his own musings. Finally, once Holmes sighs and visibly discards his line of thinking, Watson speaks up. "Are we pursuing the Nesbitt boy's murderer?"

"Yes. Her name is Martha Drugard. Before you ask, her identity was made known to me through her status as the only female member of the Tyson gang. Nesbitt was executed in their particular style, but only a woman could have fit through the window to get into his room."

Watson frowns slightly. "What about a small, _male_ member of the Tyson gang?"

The corner of Holmes' mouth tips faintly upward. "The smallest Tyson is my height—apart from Martha, of course."

Intrigued, Watson files away that tidbit for later, when he will write up a brief outline of the case. Depending on how the pursuit goes, he thinks he might choose this one to expand into a story for publication.

Martha Drugard is every bit as dangerous as Holmes hinted, and she demonstrates that same unpredictability as she evades their capture throughout countless side streets and alleys, taking them through areas thick with criminals who would like to see harm done to Holmes. Watson wields both his pistol and his cane in an attempt to dissuade them from their wishes, allowing Holmes to continue to run ahead in pursuit of the elusive Ms. Drugard. By the time he catches up to Holmes for a third time, Watson's shoulder is aching from landing blows with his cane, and he feels an immense rush of gratitude that the chase is finished when Holmes looks up at him from his position on top of Martha's struggling form. "Fetch a constable, will you? I haven't brought any restraints with me."

"Of course you haven't," Watson mumbles, not really bothered. Of course, with the bias that allows him to fondly soak in the sight of a flushed and panting Holmes crouched over his quarry, eyes alight with the thrill of a satisfying capture, Watson doesn't suppose it was ever possible for him to be aggravated in the first place.

He isn't worried in the slightest about leaving Holmes alone to literally sit on his target, considering all the times he's seen him hold down opponents twice his girth in the boxing ring. In any case, it takes no time at all for him to bring official assistance to cart away Martha Drugard, and even less for them to return home.

They make love twice that night, driven by Holmes' enthusiasm over another successful case and Watson's swelling pride at his lover's extraordinary intellectual abilities, mingled with the expected eagerness arising from days without adequate expression of their relationship. As Watson lies upon the bed, thoroughly fatigued and attempting to catch his breath, Holmes gently tugs on his hip until his back is comfortably settled against Holmes' front.

Holmes presses a kiss to Watson's shoulder, over the mild ache that he has said nothing about, and Watson melts just a little further against the body behind him. The distance imposed during cases is difficult, despite the genuine happiness he derives from knowing that Holmes is truly _living_, but he can manage it. He _is_ managing it, and he'll continue to do so while the moments in between cases are still his to occupy.

With Holmes curled around him, breathing steadily against the back of his neck, Watson falls asleep.


End file.
